


Strange Symmetry

by readymachine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Stydia, Stydia Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readymachine/pseuds/readymachine
Summary: Five times Stiles and Lydia didn't kiss and one time they did.





	

**i.**

Lydia Martin is 28 and she is going to murder her husband.

It should not take  _ forty-seven minutes _ to put on a suit. There are literally only three pieces he has to put on--a whopping total of  _ three buttons _ that need doing.  _ Three _ . There is no physical reason it should take a grown, able-bodied man  _ forty-seven minutes  _ to button three buttons. But, then again, God knows if anyone could make a deal out of putting on a suit, it would be Stiles Stilinski.

“Are you done yet?” Lydia sighs through the door, inspecting her perfectly polished carmine nails for the  _ hundredth _ time. “We have to leave for the gala in twenty minutes.”

She hears momentary shuffling on the other side of the wood before it’s thrown back and there he is, his suit immaculately done up and his tie wrapped loosely around his ears. Lydia stifles a laugh behind her palm, taking care not to smudge her lipstick. Other than the misplaced tie, he looks  _ good _ . He’s brushed his hair back into something respectable, he finally shaved that  _ godawful  _ excuse of a beard he’s been trying to grow for two months, and the crisp lines of the dark suit Lydia chose for him accentuate the long line of his body.

“Is it really called a  _ gala _ ?” Stiles huffs, reaching up to yank the tie off of his head and ruining his hair in the process. “It just sounds so pretentious. I mean, why not just ‘benefit’ or ‘event’ or ‘terrible room full of money-grubbing, snobby--’”

“Did you forget how to tie your tie again?”

Stiles sighs dramatically.

“Do I even  _ need _ a tie?”

Lydia reaches out to smooth the ends of his lapel. He doesn’t  _ really _ need the tie. He’s young enough to get away with not wearing one. Ties are for the old researchers and doddery lawyers. Not for Stiles.

But it’s fun to play with him.

So, Lydia gently takes the tie from his fingers and pulls out the sloppy knot in the fabric. She daintily slips it around her neck and masterfully executes a double Windsor knot while keeping unblinking eye contact with her husband. His mouth contorts into a facade of displeasure, but she can see the gleam of loving pride in his eyes and the indent of his cheek where he has sunk his teeth to keep from smiling.

“You think you’re sooo smart, don’t you?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Lydia lifts the tie over her head and throws it on the end of their bed.

“Genius, remember?” She replies with a smirk.

“Could never forget.”

Stiles steps forward, his hands snaking their way around her waist. He pulls her close and inhales deeply, taking in the flowery smell of her perfume and the fresh tang of her shampoo and the intoxicatingly sweet scent that is all hers. Stiles would shatter worlds for just a hint of that smell. He would crumble mountains and shake the stars from their seats and part the entire goddamn ocean for it.

But he doesn’t have to because she  _ chose _ him just like he chose her and every night he gets to curl up in  _ their bed _ and bury his face into the soft expanse of skin between her shoulder and her neck and fall asleep floating in the grace of Dr. Lydia Martin.

In this moment, in the final ten minutes before they have to leave for the achingly fancy gala thrown in Lydia Martin’s honor, Stiles is overflowing with admiration for his wife. He wants nothing more than to pull her face in his hands and kiss her senseless but he loves her enough to not ruin her makeup. Instead, he presses his lips briefly to the delicate wisps of hair at her temple and drifts his hands down to intertwine his fingers with hers. Some days he really can’t believe his luck.

Lydia smiles up at him, bringing his hand up to her mouth and pressing her lips to the inside of his wrist. When she pulls back, a red lipstick print remains, bold against his skin. It will stain the inside of this dress shirt with a colorful mark, just like all of the others. He does not try to hide his smile.

“In case you get lost,” She says with a grin. “Now, come on. We have people to schmooze and champagne to drink.”

“People to make jealous, silverware to steal…”

“Do  _ not _ steal the silverware again. I had a hard enough time convincing the Dean that you couldn’t have possibly taken his pie cutter.”

“Guess you’ll have to stick close to make sure I don’t, huh?”  
  


**ii.**

Stiles is 22 and Lydia Martin is  _ naked _ .

It’s not like he hasn’t seen her naked before. They’ve been dating for four years now and he is  _ intimately _ familiar with Lydia’s body. He can trace all of her with his eyes closed, from the freckle at the nape of her neck to the scar on the side of her left foot. But this time is different because this time Lydia is naked in  _ their first apartment _ . She’s naked on  _ their bed _ in  _ their room _ of the apartment that has a lease with both of  _ their names _ printed neatly on it.

God, how did he get so lucky.

“Decided to boycott clothes, Lydia?” He asks, trying to sound nonchalant despite the sudden tightness of his pants. She hums in response, stretching her arms over her head and arching her back.

“It was either nudity or doing laundry and I  _ hate _ doing laundry,” She replies.

“Is that the real reason you agreed to move in with me? So you’d never have to do laundry again?”

Lydia smiles sweetly.

“Here I was thinking you liked me for my charming personality and vibrant wit when all you really wanted was my knowledge of rinse cycles.”

Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Dry cleaners exist, we don’t even need to  _ do _ laundry.”

“Some of us have student loans, Lydia, we can’t afford to take everything down to the dry cleaners.”

Lydia huffs and slides herself into a sitting position.

“I guess I’ll start laundry and put on clothes, then,” She says. “Since you  _ insist _ .”

“Don’t be  _ hasty _ ,” Stiles laughs, toeing off his shoes and kneeling on the end of the bed. Lydia grins wide, showing all of her teeth in that way of hers that makes Stiles’s stomach curl pleasantly inside of him.

_ God _ , how did he get so lucky.

She leans forward and takes his stupid tie between her fingers and pulls him forward. He angles forward towards her, one hand bracing himself on his thigh while the other reaches out for her. His knuckles skim the bottom of her breast before skirting around to rest on the curve of her ribcage and he loves the way she shivers ever-so-slightly at his touch and he loves the way goosebumps ripple over the tender flesh of her chest and he loves  _ her _ , he loves her, he loves her.

She loosens the knot at his neck that she had tied so neatly for him that morning and takes a brief moment to gently kiss his forehead. He hopes she’s left a mark with her lipstick, right there beneath his hairline. He’ll never stop loving being marked by her. He lifts his hand to pull his tie off and she stops his motion.

“Leave it on,” She says, something like mischief glinting in her eyes.

_ God _ . How did he get so lucky?

 

**iii.**

Lydia Martin is eighteen and Stiles smells like fire and blood.

Except Stiles isn’t  _ here _ .

She’s back in Eichen, with its dingy sheets and the orderly with the wide eyes who won’t stop looking at her like he’s hungry.

“This won’t hurt, Lydia,” He croons, sliding the needle into the skin of her arm. He nicks the vein and there is pain, sure, but Lydia can’t stop seeing Stiles with a ring of flames around his blood-splattered face and nothing else registers except that she needs to save him. She needs to  _ save him _ , but the straps around her wrists are tighter and tighter and suddenly it is Valack looking down at her with a terrifying grin and half of his skull missing. He twists his head unnaturally, displaying gray brain matter and bits of shattered bone.

“This won’t hurt, Lydia,” He gurgles, his useless left eye lolling down his cheek. He withdraws the needle from her arm and lifts the syringe up high, his fingers wrapping around the barrel. “This won’t hurt at all.”

His smile is almost loving as he swings the syringe down towards her neck.

Lydia wakes up thrashing with burning eyes and a scream lodged deep in her esophagus. She jams her lips closed, trying to swallow the pressure building in her throat. It was just a dream, just a  _ dream _ , it was  _ just a dream _ , just a--

A broad hand slides its way around her waist and pulls her close.

“You’re okay,” A sleepy voice says from behind her. She feels Stiles press the plane of his cheek against her shoulder blade as his thumb rubs soothing circles against the smooth scar on her side. Lydia closes her eyes and tries to shake the image of Valack’s exposed brain from her mind, tries to narrow down her focus to the constant thrum of her heart and the comforting weight of Stiles against her.

“ _ Breathe _ , Lydia,” Stiles says, his voice rumbling against her. She does as requested, taking in a deep breath. The knot in her throat subsides, the pounding of her heart slowing back to normal.

“Valack again?” Stiles asks when she’s breathing steady and strong again. His fingers squeeze slightly against her skin as he speaks. Lydia nods, leaning backward into his touch. He circles both of his arms around her waist and pulls her close. He’s solid and warm and  _ here _ and she won’t ever stop appreciating that. Never again.

“You’re safe now,” Stiles whispers in the dark. “We’re all safe.”

And he’s right. They’re all gone: the Alpha Packs and Durachs and Dread Doctors and the Wild Hunt. They fought and survived (though not all of them, she knows--Allison’s name is still a painful weight around her heart that she’s sure will never stop) and after all the years of bloodshed and fear they’ve finally achieved  _ safety _ . The Nemeton is gone. The monsters are not drawn to Beacon Hills anymore. They are no longer afraid of the dark.

Stiles pulls her gently backwards, his chest flush against her back and his arms wrapped securely around her stomach. He presses a gentle kiss against her shoulder.

“Remember, I love you,” He says against her skin.

She does not wake again until morning.

 

**iv.**

Stiles is sixteen and Lydia Martin is in his bed.

If he had told twelve-year-old Stiles that one day  _ Lydia Martin _ would be lying casually on his bed with her heels thrown off and her feet in the air, he would have laughed in his face. And yet there she is, her chin resting lazily on her hands as she lounges across the blanket Stiles sleeps under every night. He hopes her scent will linger in the fabric.

But that’s not right because she’s with  _ Aiden _ and there are more important things to focus on. Like the mass murderer wandering the streets of Beacon Hills. He stabs a thumbtack into the photo of the high school on his corkboard and winds red yarn around the end.

“What do the different colored strings mean?” Lydia asks from his bed.

“Uh, they’re just different stages of the investigation. So like, green is solved, yellow is to be determined, blue is just pretty.”

He doesn’t tell her that he thinks blue is pretty because she told him in the fourth grade that blue reminded her of summertime. That’s not what friends tell each other, and they’re  _ friends _ now. Just friends.

“What does red mean?”

“Uh, unsolved.”

“You only have red on the board.”

Stiles spins around.

“Yes, I’m aware, thank you.”

He turns back to the board, at the endless crisscrossed lines of red and the layered photographs. There’s a solution somewhere, staring at him, he knows. He just has to keep looking...

“Did you get detention for pulling the alarm?”

He thinks he must be imagining the waver in her voice.

“Yeeep, every day this week. It’s okay, though, we were onto something.”

“Even though we couldn’t find any proof of Barrow being there?”

He knows he’s not imagining it this time and he turns to look at her. She won’t meet his eyes as she pretends to focus on the red yarn she’s tangling around her fingers. He’s rarely heard beautiful, confident Lydia Martin sound so defeated and it’s not right. She can’t doubt herself like this.

“Hey, Lydia,” He says, crossing to the bed and kneeling down in front of her. “You have been right every time something like this has happened. Okay? So don’t start doubting yourself now.”

He tries to hold her gaze but it feels like looking at the sun and he averts his eyes as he speaks. They’re so close now. She’s so close. He thinks of the locker room and how neatly her lips fit against his and  _ it’s not right _ because they are  _ just friends _ but that does not stop his heart from stuttering inside of his chest.

“No scent. No bomb. I got you in trouble…”

“Okay, okay,” He reaches out to unwind the layer of yarn from her fingers. Her skin is burning hot against his and he is unsurprised because she is made of light. She is Lydia Martin, the genius banshee Lydia Martin, and he believes in her and he needs her to know that. “Barrow was there, alright? You knew it--you  _ felt _ it. Okay? And look, if you wanted to? I’d go back to that school right now and I’d search all night just to prove it.”

She smiles gratefully at him and  _ God _ , what he would do for that smile. He can’t help his own smile blooming across his face.

But they’re just friends, and that’s fine. It’s fine because she’s with  _ Aiden _ even though he’s a  _ murderer _ and an  _ asshole _ , no matter how many times he and his brother offer to help Scott, and Stiles is totally cool with it. He swears.

Stiles lowers his gaze to the green Sharpie in his hand, the lid on so loosely that he can smell the fumes.

Wait.

The  _ fumes _ .

“Get up. Get up now, we’re going to the school.”  
  


**v.**

Stiles Stilinski is fourteen and tonight he is going to kiss Lydia Martin.

His hair is newly buzzed, he’s wearing the blue flannel shirt his dad got him for his birthday, and he’s made sure to praise whichever higher being that blessed him with two invitations to Danny Mahealani’s Real Adult party with Real Adult alcohol and exactly  _ zero _ Real Adult chaperones. This is  _ his year _ . This is the year he will walk through the front doors of Beacon Hills High School with  _ Lydia Martin _ on his arm. He can feel it in his bones.

“We’re going to be  _ so dead _ ,” Scott says from his right. His fingers are tapping the inhaler in his front pocket. “You’re dad is going to find out or my mom is going to find out and we’re going to be grounded fore--”

“ _ Scotty _ , calm down,” Stiles says. “No one’s going to find out, just be  _ cool _ .”

He holds a hand up to initiate the best friend handshake that definitely didn’t take them three solid hours to perfect. Scott hesitates for just a moment before a reluctant smile crosses his features and he slaps their palms together in a complicated pattern. Stiles beams widely, all loose limbs and teenage courage, and rings Danny’s doorbell.

The party is larger than Stiles was anticipating; there are almost thirty people milling around Danny’s empty house. He spots Lydia immediately, of course. Her strawberry-blonde hair is curled in beautiful ringlets around her heart-shaped face, her clothes and makeup impeccable--her arm resting comfortably against Jackson Whittemore’s as they sit next to each other on the couch.

Stiles frowns. This is not unexpected, but still unfavorable. But it’s fine. He’s got a  _ plan _ .

“Thanks for coming, guys,” Danny grins, pushing a red solo cup into Stiles’s hand.

“Thanks for inviting us,” Scott replies, taking his own solo cup. He looks down at the amber liquid apprehensively. Stiles takes a large gulp, swallowing down the bitter liquid with a grimace. Lady Gaga starts blasting over the speakers and Danny disappears into the crowd. Scott takes a sip of his drink and sets the cup down on an end table. Stiles doesn’t think he’ll pick it up again.

Everything proceeds as Stiles expected. Scott does not get drunk, even though Stiles thinks it would do him some good to let go and relax for once. He manages to speak to Lydia once in the kitchen and doesn’t make a complete ass of himself. It only takes Stiles two drinks to convince Danny that Seven Minutes In Heaven is a good idea. It takes another twenty minutes to convince everyone else. At ten minutes before 11, a group of fifteen of them gather around Danny’s coffee table, right on schedule. Danny produces an empty bottle of peach schnapps and sets it on the table. Stiles silently begins to pray.

Danny spins first, the bottleneck coming to a stop pointed directly at Scott. They disappear into Danny’s coat closet, emerging seven minutes later with strange smiles on their faces. Jackson spins next. Stiles ignores the hopeful look on Lydia’s face and the disappointment that crosses her features when it lands on Megan Soloman instead. Jackson sidles off to the closet with Megan, Lydia scowling after them. A stab of fierce satisfaction slides through Stiles’s gut. It’s all working out better than he could have hoped.

Jackson and Megan stumble back seven minutes later. Megan’s lipstick is smudged and there are still traces of it on Jackson’s cheek. Lydia looks positively  _ murderous _ as she seizes the bottle and sends it spinning wildly around the table. Stiles gives out one final internal plea.

The bottle slows, slows, and stops...pointing directly at Stiles.

He uses every ounce of self-control not to cheer.

Lydia looks at him with blank eyes, her gaze briefly cutting over to Jackson. He’s leveling an icy glare at Stiles, but Stiles can’t be bothered to care when Lydia grabs him by his wrist and hauls him up towards the closet. He catches a glance of Scott giving him a thumbs up from the circle before Lydia shuts the closet door and they’re thrown into darkness.

There’s a painful moment of silence where Stiles is overwhelmed to be in such a tight space with  _ Lydia Martin _ . The smell of her perfume is thick in his nostrils, her hair is touching his arm, the skin of his wrist still feels on fire from the pressure of her fingertips; his heart is racing inside of his chest and he wonders if she feels it, too. He feels her shift in front of him and his lungs swoop up. This is it. He’s going to kiss Lydia Martin.

But instead he feels her arm slide up over both of their heads, hears her fumble around for the chain to the light before she finds what she’s looking for and clicks it on. Stiles has to close his eyes at the fierce brightness of the overhead bulb flaring to life and when he opens them again Lydia is leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed over her chest and a bored expression on her face. She’s looking at something over his shoulder. Stiles is confused.

“Are we gonna…?” He asks lamely, gesturing between them. Lydia snaps her eyes to him and raises an eyebrow.

“Are we going to what?” She drawls.

“Uh, are we gonna kiss?”

Lydia scoffs.

“Of course we’re not going to kiss.”

Stiles feels his heart fall down to his stomach, to his shoes, through the floor.

“But it’s the rules,” He finds himself saying.

“Some rules were meant to be broken,” Lydia shoots back.

Stiles huffs.

“You’ve  _ never _ thought that.”

“You don’t even  _ know _ me.”

“That’s bullshit,” Stiles responds. This is a mistake. He’s deviating from The Plan, but he’s a little drunk and a little heartbroken so really, fuck it. “I’ve known you since first grade, Lydia  _ Lorraine _ Martin. I know that you’ve known how to do algebra since you were six. I know that your favorite color is blue even though you tell those assholes out there that it’s pink. I know that you hate the beach but love the lake. I  _ know _ you, Lydia.”

Lydia looks surprised for the smallest moment before her eyes narrow and her face shuts off into the familiar bored expression she’s been wearing more and more since she’s been hanging out with Jackson.

“You don’t know  _ anything _ about me,” She says coldly with a finality that Stiles knows means he won’t get further than this. He crosses his arms to match her pose. The minutes tick away.

With 60 seconds to go, Lydia sighs and presses her lips against the back of her palm. Her lip gloss leaves a perfect lip print against her skin. She reaches forward and firmly presses the mark against his cheek.

“Now they’ll think we kissed,” She says in response to his bewildered expression.

“You couldn’t have just, I don’t know,  _ kissed _ me?”

“I only kiss lacrosse players,” Lydia says matter-of-factly. “Time’s up.”

She places her perfectly manicured hand on the doorknob and leaves without a backwards glance.

The next day, Stiles gets his dad to drive him to the sports store so he can buy a lacrosse stick. 

He’s got a new plan.  
  


**\---**

Lydia Martin is not scared. She’s not scared because she knows Stiles is  _ here _ . She can feel him and he’s close. He’s so, so close.

There’s a gunshot from the boy’s locker room.  _ There _ .

“Scott, I can’t fight this guy!” She hears his voice echo down the hallway. Her heart twists in her chest at his yell and she moves quicker. She reaches the door to see the Ghost Rider with its gun raised and they are  _ not _ taking Stiles from her. Not again. Never again. 

She sucks in a deep breath and screams. The Ghost Rider is thrown backwards into the lockers, the metal bending under the force of her wail. She keeps screaming, driving it deeper and deeper into the steel until it crumples to the ground.

She runs into the locker room and he’s  _ here _ , Stiles is right in front of her looking at her like he always looks at her. Like he would cross a universe just to be beside her. How could he ever have thought she would forget that look? The air whooshes out of him and she loves him. He has to know she loves him.

“I didn’t say it back,” She manages. He blinks and tosses his head, already moving before he speaks.

“You don’t have to.”

His hands circle her waist as hers come up to frame his face and he kisses her, he kisses her, he kisses her. Her fingers thread through his hair, his splay across the small of her back, and she breathes in sharply against him as his lips move against hers. She thinks she might feel his hands shaking against her. It occurs to her between the rushed beating of her heart that  _ of course _ they would be in the boy’s locker room. Of course they would be standing where it started. Where everything changed.

They finally pull away, Lydia tracing the plane of his cheek with her hand. Stiles almost looks like he wants to cry as he stares down at her reverently. He leans forward, his nose pressing against her temple as he winds his arms around her shoulders and hugs her tight.

“I found you,” She whispers into the flannel near his throat.

“You saved me,” He whispers back against her hair.

They sway gently together for a single, precious moment.

But then there’s a crash from somewhere nearby, the rush of a breeze down the hall, the yell of a friend. The fight isn’t over. Not yet.

Stiles pulls back, his face hardening as he looks to the door. His hand links with hers, their fingers twining together.

“I’ve got to help Scott,” He says. “We’ve got to help everyone.”

There will be time for soft moments with Stiles. There will be lazy mornings and stolen laughter and a million memories to make in the wide expanse of time in front of them. First they just have to make it through the night.

Lydia nods, taking a steadying breath.

“Together,” She says, squeezing his hand hard.

“Together,” He repeats, squeezing back.

Together, they step out into the hallway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


End file.
